Not Enough Sky
by khallure
Summary: It lingered, like an irritant insect, too, at the edge of his consciousness, one with him as he breathed the recycled air..." Oneshots chronicling the glimpses of inconsistent, at times infuriating, lives aboard the Starship Enterprise.
1. Restless

Spock drew himself into a sitting position in the bed. There was a slight discomfort, as always, in the roughness

of the manufactured sheets against his skin, and he shifted slightly, pushing the crumpled blankets to the side.

Beneath his feet the floor trembled with the power of the ship's engines, the walls and the ceiling and the

embodiment of the vessel seeming to breathe in and out with a vast, unbridled power. For a brief moment he

caught a wisp of feeling that the ship was _alive_ and swelling and moving beneath him as a _being_, not just a collection

of parts. And for that brief moment his mind went to Scotty, and the man's fervent passion for the working,

breathing being that led them through the depths of space. But the thought was locked away in an instant by

his own precise, calculating mind – it was almost a trap, set to capture any fleeting emotion and, after categorizing

it as illogical and therefore irrelevant, dispose of it. Logic governed all that was important, he chastised himself.

There was nothing else but that which could be reasoned and explained – and even the human unpredictability

of emotion had its root in logic and science, for in their most rudimentary form, were nothing more than very complex

chemical reactions all synchronized for the survival of the organism. This knowledge, Spock had taught himself at a

very young age, was at the root of all existence and should be that which kept his movements precise and his thoughts

orderly and practical. In that way, he could not do wrong. But he had cautioned himself of this many times in his

life, and the words were well worn into his consciousness. To revert to his old lecture was a dull comfort, and the

logic flowed into his mind, and it became a computer, calculating equations and setting up constants and variables

and allowing the scientific process of proofs and statements and practicality sooth his spinning mind. He consciously

slowed his thought process, cautioned his mind from moving with such rapidity, and focused on calming himself.

He could feel the quiet beginning of a meditation poised like darkened ink blots at the far edges of his mind, and he

allowed the urge to remain there, though he made to move to access the reserve.

* * *

The lights on the ship were beginning to grow dim as the circuits rerouted the power for the night, and he sensed

that the ship was sleeping. Logically, by sleeping, he meant that the ship's computers and mechanical parts had

reverted into a more energy efficient mode since they would not be used until morning. But he could not erase the

feeling that his keen mind had formed into word only moments before, though it was no longer important. It lingered,

like an irritant insect, too, at the edge of his consciousness, one with him as he breathed the recycled air felt the deep

vibrations in the walls.

* * *

Spock lay down again, drawing the thin blankets over himself. He now had nowhere to look but the ceiling, and finding

the air duct directly above unpleasant to look at, closed his eyes. Darkness washed over him, immediately bringing a coolness

to his eyes and his mind. Dreams began to whisper to him, creeping towards him as sleep threatened to sweep down and

claim the weary Vulcan. Spock resisted gently, and instead quieted his mind, allowing a meditation trance to flood his consciousness.

He lay in the odd, memory-like place, seeing a muddled array of colors and feeling nothing, and then, as it was logical to do so,

slipped into a deep sleep.


	2. Paradise

Once or twice he would just love to know what it felt like to have hot sand beneath his feet.

Once even would do – once in a lifetime – and as his mind shuffled through it's data cards to find

one thing that he would not give up to have this once chance, he discovered that he could find nothing.

The planet below was paradise. Sunny and sterile, the surface had been scrubbed to death with high velocity

winds and whipped to death with the sand that lay in vast, golden dunes, spread lazily across the surface.

One or two mountains rose up from the golden desert floor, but they were small in comparison to earth's,

and their stone sides had been scorched by the ever-present sun, throwing cool shadows over the yellow

sand below. The sensors reported even a livable atmosphere, albeit much heavier oxygen concentrates than

earth's; it would not be advisable to spend too much time there. The atmosphere, the sensors reported, was

characterized by a concentration of green light particles that made it through the planet's thick ozone.

The sky would be a light, fresh green spanning across golden hills. Paradise. A beach without water, almost,

and as a Starfleet officer, he had spent far too much time in the vacuum of space and not enough time enjoying

earth's many paradises. The beach was a myth to him, and the image of a golden shore with blue skies and blue

waves was almost alien to the white, sterile environment he had worked in. Hospitals had no need for shores, and

no need for sand, or hot dry breezes that tickled the back of your neck. Tall ceilings and narrow walls and glinting

metal instruments seemed to be etched into the backs of his eyelids and were there every instant he closed his eyes.

Fairytale images of beaches and deserts were farther away – inexplicit blobs of color and sound, elusive memories grasped

only briefly in waiting rooms where magazines displayed paradise as if it were for sale. It was.

* * * *

And as the lift hummed dutifully beneath his Starfleet issued boots, on its way to the bridge, the good doctor shifted his stance

and cautiously prepared himself to launch an argument for _his_ expertise to be needed in the landing party. After all, he was a _doctor_,

and he'd be darned before he allowed anyone to beam to the planet's surface without being accompanied by someone who could examine

this previously uninvestigated environment for harmful bacteria and other biological nuances. After all, the planet was reportedly teeming

with life of a considerably primitive evolutionary development, but new diseases were new diseases, no matter how "evolutionary inferior"

they were – as Spock had so gladly put it only moments before. The doctor frowned, sure that the first officer was already on the bridge

informing the captain of _his _blasted _logical _opinion on the best choice for a landing party. Their conversation moments before in sickbay

had certainly not left a pretty image of himself in Spock's mind, he was certain, and if the man had not been distinctly Vulcan, he would have been

sure that he would use this opportunity to spite him, after the way he had gruffly herded the man out of sickbay. And then a little smirk appeared

at the corner of the doctor's mouth, because Spock, as much as he could never admit it, was as human as the rest of them. And as the lift door

_whooshed _open, he could not help but hear the Vulcan's familiar drawl, and could not but help catch a glimpse of his blasted pointy ears and

half-concealed smirk. "…Ensign Liberman, logically, is in need of the experience, and has the certifications for investigations of desert, low-life

planets such as this … and it also follows logically that, as a routine mission, we need take no more than a nurse for _routine _medical observation..."

Bones caught the meaningful flash in the man's eye as he stressed _routine, _and stepped off the elevator. _I thought that green blood didn't allow you_

_to suffer from any kinda' wounded pride, and certainly not to act on it… _His lips itched to growl the stinging words, but he held back, knowing with certainty

the directness of Spock's instant retaliation, _why doctor, I see no need to resort to such insults in order to attain your, I must admit, illogical desires._

So much for paradise. Spock had probably never even taken his shoes off before.


	3. His Last Hope

**PAIRING: friendship!Christine/Bones C= **

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Bones, and I don't own Christine. grgljsgphl.  
**

**...some of this may be a little OOC, I'm not very good at keeping canon, especially with Bones .  
**

The sound of liquid dripping was enough to drive a woman crazy. The current offender was an odd red liquid that was being slowly drained into a test tube, and would intermittently let off puffs of hissing steam into the air ducts above. It was a project of the doctor's that this nurse had not gotten around to questioning, and had learned some time ago, that it was often better not to ask.

The concentration uttered another unpleasant hiss, and continued to drip loudly, while she momentarily clenched her fists, driving away the inescapable sound of liquid on hard plastic. She brought a reluctant glare to the desk in front of her; the padds scattered across McCoy's workspace were in no time soon disappearing, and Christine reluctantly picked up the pen again and began writing; filling in signatures, crossing out names, and circling respective "yes's" and "no's" where they belonged. It was monotonous work, as always, and she was aware that _something_, whether it was that crazy sound, or the heavy boredom that seemed to draw all the atmosphere out of the little alcove in sickbay, was pressing down on her shoulders and driving itself into her rattling skull like an old style earth screwdriver.

Furious and altogether frustrated, Christine rose from the hard plastic chair and went over to check the vital readings on their latest patient. He had been on an obscure federation outpost in the Thaelius System, victim of an unkown fever, and their last stop at the somewhat abandoned base had brought him into the eager hands of Dr. Leonard McCoy – always too willing to take on a new hopelessly dying life form. Some part of him, she felt (the part of him she had always held a deep and unstated respect for), believed he could save this man. But the looks of him were not in his favor, even now as she changed the hot cloth on his forehead, she glanced at his readings and felt a slight pang that had nothing to do with this particular dying man. It was _all _dying men she felt weak for, and for their blue-eyed doctor who was gruff and rude and rash but would do anything to save a life. He was the one who would get hurt; not this man's long-dead family, and not the man himself.

His eyelids fluttered blindly, the feverish whites of his eyes rolling up towards Christine in a sickeningly hopeless way. His hands shook, and for the tenth time that day she wiped down his sweaty, white skin with a damp cloth and squeezed his trembling fingers.

Someone behind her cleared his throat, and Christine turned around. "Nurse Chapel. How's our patient? Have I cured the common cold yet?" the last comment was just thrown out their rather pointlessly, accompanied by a weak grin. It was meant to lighten the weighty meaning of his question, she knew; she read him all too well. That eyebrow was jerking above his left eye, ready to raise in question as she opened her mouth to give him the answer he didn't want to hear. "Wait." he held a hand up to stop her, "I know." He did, didn't he? He had known for days now, days that they had stayed up nights watching the poor soul flail in the dark for some hope to clutch. He walked around her and glanced at the vital signs, then went to the agonizing red experiment, detaching the bottle from the draining machine and swishing around what liquid had managed to gather. "What is it doctor, if I may ask?", Now was as good a time as always.

"His last hope." She had not been prepared for the rawness of his words, and even less the way he said it. His blue eyes were jaded, his skin lost much of its color, and those sweet wrinkles around his eyes seemed to have grown deeper. This had aged him, she realized numbly. Not this man, and not the man before him, but the thousands that had passed through the sickbay with one single hope, and who'd had that hope dashed because Bones, sweet, grumpy Bones had been one number off. And he'd blamed himself. She wanted the man to live, badly. Because they both knew what the words "last hope" meant. They both knew as they watched him press the hypo filled with the red liquid against his shoulder, both knew as he gave a few feeble twitches, and both knew as his eyes fluttered weakly. She was aware of how close they were standing, both poised tensely over the bed. He was one patient; a man who had spent his life at the edges of the galaxy living on an obscure, half-forgotten outpost and doing paperwork in labs. He would probably be happy to go. She knew he knew, and she knew he didn't care.

The man drifted into an uneasy sleep, and Bones's left eyebrow leaped up. "He's not supposed to do that… not after the shot .." he wasn't speaking directly to her, but she answered, "Stimulant, doctor?" He nodded and she fetched another hypo, quickly pressing it into his arm. There was a muted hiss, and no reaction from the patient. They were standing very close now, their arms pressed against each other. The heart monitor let out a few more strangled beeps, and the blinking red circle faded out. Life signs sunk rapidly, and the unnamed patient in the bed became unbearably still. Christine felt the presence of death. It was a wet, heavy smell, like dead leaves. The rubber and plastic that was so prevalent in sickbay could only suppress the odor so much. Now, standing so closely, she _felt_ rather than heard him inhale quickly. "What a waste.." he growled. "Now I've got more blasted paperwork to do … " And then when words seemed to fail him, he turned to her and angled those perfect eyebrows, letting out a rattling sigh.

"You did your best, Doctor." Somehow she felt that the words weren't enough. Maybe it was because she had said them so many times, in so many places. Over the years after she had seem him flustered, angry, anxious, exited, hopeful, depressed, even sulking; yet seemed like she had always been there to help him drag the red Starfleet-issued sheets over some empty face. It's alright, she had told him, you did your best. Do your best. Suddenly the best wasn't enough. His next response echoed her dark thoughts, and his voice had been lowered to almost a cracked whisper, as if he didn't dare speak louder. They were close, she and him. Seemed that watching thousands of people slip away like that would do that to two people – bring them closer. It allowed her to reach forward and take his hand in hers, and then not let go. _His last hope_, meant there probably wasn't going to be any hope at all. _His last hope_ meant Bones had somehow failed at providing _two_ options for him, so maybe it would've only been his _second _to last hope. _His last hope _meant that there was a blanket over an unnamed man's face and that they stood with nothing between them, holding onto one another, and as she leaned into him and he sighed, there was the sound of the door sliding open as two security men arrived to take away the body.

**R&R pleeeease c:**


End file.
